


Dead Saturday Mornings

by LazyPotatoo



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Cold Weather, Fluff, M/M, POV Outsider, Post-Episode 12, Yuuri is Fascinating, Yuuri is Not a Morning Person, to everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 13:17:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10387479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyPotatoo/pseuds/LazyPotatoo
Summary: It takes a while for Yuuri to get used to St. Petersburg, but he gets there eventually.





	

Mikhail had lived in St. Petersburg for his entire twenty-two years of living. He woke up every morning and went to class half awake until it was past eleven, ate the cheapest lunch he could afford, hung out with his friends on some days with a pounding headache, dry mouth and immense regret the next day to show for it, and other days, put on his apron for his part time job at the local cafe. He was easygoing enough with no particular issues more pressing than the person next to him. He was what you least expected from a main character, because he was, in every way, shape and form, ordinary. 

The only reasons why he'd ever be a featured character in any sort of medium were if he were a murder victim in a crime show, a pedestrian whose back happened to be caught walking across the camera in the background of a news report, or an observing role for the  _ real  _ main character who people would actually enjoy following.

Mikhail worked at his cafe every Wednesday and Friday from five to closing and Saturday and Sunday from opening to noon. Just like every Saturday at six-thirty, he started up the coffee machine, heated up the water, adjusted the chairs and flipped the cafe's sign over. 

The thing about Saturday was that it was right after Friday night. No one in their right mind was ever awake at six-thirty on a Saturday morning, as the entirety of St. Petersburg would rather sleep in until eight or nine. It wasn't routine to get more than the two regulars in those earlier opening hours, and they had unfortunate jobs in the morning, just like Mikhail.

He and his unlucky coworker, Sasha, were leaning against the countertop as they stared outside of the coffee shop's window.

"Wait, is that a person?" Sasha asked.

Mikhail followed her line of sight and saw a bumbling figure walking across the street. It was impossible to discern the figure's appearance or even gender from the layers of clothing that covered every inch of their skin. "I think they're a customer."

"They look like they've just come from Oymyakon," Sasha said. 

"From what?"

"Oymyakon," Sasha repeated as they watched the humanoid ball of clothing slowly approach their store. "It's the coldest town in Russia."

That tidbit of information did sound somewhat familiar. "I knew that," Mikhail said.

The bell on their door gave its usual ring as it swung open. Now, Mikhail could tell the bundled person was probably male, but not much else. He wore a beanie that covered most of his black hair and a pair of large glasses and a mouth mask that blocked the rest of his face. Mikhail could count at least two other jackets beneath the thick button up overcoat. 

"Welcome," Mikhail said.

The man stood before the counter and said, "One coffee please." He sounded more like Mikhail's late grandfather on his father's side than his alive one on his mother's side. Mikhail hoped he was all right. 

"What kind of coffee would you like?" Mikhail asked.

"The one with milk?" His words were strung together awkwardly with an evident hesitance and a strange cadence. 

"A latte?"

The man nodded into his scarf.

Sasha set the steaming cup of coffee on the counter beside him. The man fumbled with the money in his gloved hands, shuffling through his banknotes before settling on the correct ones. As Mikhail handed him his change, the man mumbled out his thanks in English, before realizing himself and repeating it again in broken Russian.

He and Sasha watched him hobble out of the establishment, the door's bells jingling once more. 

"I think he's Asian?"

"Yeah."

"Kinda suspicious."

"...Yeah."

And that was the end of that.

 

Except it wasn't, because the next Saturday they saw the same man with the same  scarf, mask and layers of coats walk in. They had the exact same exchange as the week before, except shorter, because the man knew what a latte was in Russian now.

"Well, he's bringing in money during our slow hours at least," Sasha said as they watched him tread across the empty street. 

Mikhail hummed in agreement.

 

They didn't see the Asian customer again until three weeks later, in March. 

He and Sasha were standing around, people-watching through the window the few who did walk by. Mikhail spotted a figure in blue cross the street and approach the cafe. He wore a comfortable-looking tracksuit, a pair of glasses, and a shy smile. 

Those glasses and that hair cut tickled a vague memory in the back of Mikhail's mind--something about them and dead Saturday mornings…

"It's the guy who dresses like an Oymyakonian," Sasha hissed quietly.

He had no time to reply, because the customer was within earshot now. 

"A latte?" Mikhail asked.

The man smiled, brightening the five meter radius around him. "You remember! Yes, the latte here is good." His Russian was still strange, but the words came out of his lips easier than before. He pulled out his wallet, barely looking at the bills when he fished them out.

" _ Spasibo _ ," he said with the same interesting Russian as he took the hot cup from Mikhail with a gloved hand.

"Is he a student? College, or maybe even high school?" Sasha wondered. They watched him cross the street to the other side. The man behind the layers of clothing was a lot younger than both of them had expected.

"He's Japanese, I think," Mikhail said. He had a cute smile, Mikhail thought idly, the same kind of cute he would use to describe a bunny.

The Japanese student came by the next two Saturday mornings in the same blue jerseys with the same timid smile and left with the same latte. The boy was more or less a regular by then, and Sasha and he had theorized his entire life's events by the third Saturday of March.

"He's a freshman in college. High school students don't have enough money to go around buying lattes all the time," Sasha had said as they stared out of the window as usual.

"I've never seen him around school though," Mikhail said. "Plus, college students are always broke too."

"Yeah, well maybe he has a part time job, like you."

"I guess," Mikhail said before turning his attention to the lady who had just walked in.

"I'm  _ pretty  _ sure he's Japanese from that accent of his," Sasha said when the customer left with her drink.

"Okinawa," Mikhail offered. "With all those layers he had on at first, he probably lived in a really warm area before."

"He's popular at school. And completely oblivious about it, too," Sasha added.

And so on.

 

When the fourth Saturday of March rolled around and the slow hours of the morning ticked by, there was still no sign of the familiar blue figure crossing the street no matter how many times he glanced in that direction. Mikhail found himself a  _ bit  _ disappointed. 

"Maybe he has a paper due on Monday," mused Sasha.

Mikhail didn't even need to ask who. "Or maybe he had to cover for someone's shift at his job."

They sighed, staring out of the window for the rest of the morning as they waited for the next customer to come by. 

 

It was the second Saturday morning of April when Sasha nudged him insistently out of the blue. "Look!" She gestured to the window.

Mikhail looked. There was a dark haired man in a crisp suit that looked specifically tailored for him crossing the street towards their side. For a fraction of a second, he fancied the idea that it was their favorite Japanese student--he and Sasha would have quite a time theorizing the occasion. 

But it couldn't be him, Mikhail thought as they observed the figure from afar, because the poise and smooth elegance that the man in the suit held himself were polar opposites to the shy and soft Japanese boy he had seen. This man was at  _ least  _ in his mid-twenties, his gait confident and experienced. 

They were around the same height though, Mikhail noted as the man drew closer--skin tone was similar too. The door jingled as it was opened, and the man in the suit walked in. His hair was slicked back with gel, but a few strands fell in front of his hooded eyes. Mikhail didn't know too much about suits, but it was definitely worth more than three months of his salary. Not to mention the leather shoes that were so new, they had no creases, and made a  _ clop  _ sound every time the bottom of his heels met with the cafe's floor.

But the nose structure and the cheekbones and those lips were all distinctly familiar and in fact all belonged to the same face he had seen before--

"Oh my  _ god _ , I think that's-"

"Hello, you two," the man greeted them with a slight upturn on his lips. 

When neither of them moved, he cocked his head to the side questioningly. "I'll take the usual, if that's all right?"

Mikhail cleared his throat. "The--the latte?"

The Japanese boy--or man?--smiled as if they shared a secret, eliciting a reaction in his cheeks Mikhail never thought would be caused by another man. "Oh good, you guys still remember me. I was worried you'd forgotten since I'd been out of the country for so long."

The jingling of the door rang in the store for the second time that morning. There was an equally handsome man in equally formal attire standing at the entrance, silver hair and shockingly blue eyes shining brilliantly in the sun. "Yuuri, we're going to be late for our interview!"

The Japanese man-- _ Yuuri _ , Mikhail tested out the name in his mind--turned around. "Victor! I'll be out in a sec, you go back to the cab first."

When Yuuri turned back around, the remnants of the smile for the other man was so soft and  _ adoring  _ that it left no room for any misunderstanding to exactly what the other man was to him. 

Mikhail handed him the latte and Yuuri placed the usual bill on the counter. Mikhail's gaze flickered down to the simple gold ring on his finger that glinted with meaning in the light.

"Спасибо!" Yuuri said, giving them a small wave and a smile as he quickly left to catch up to his lover. This time, his Russian was nearly flawless.

He and Sasha stood behind the counter, awed into silence. There went the fabricated life of the sweet Japanese boy.

"Oh my  _ god, _ " Sasha said.

Mikhail touched his cheek with the back of his hand. His face was still warm.

 

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this](http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=61635523) on pixiv  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
